I am sat two feet from my hero, watching him decay.

To the untrained eye, Loudon Wainwright III doesn’t appear in terrible fettle for a 66-year-old who’s spent withering chunks of his life on the road. He’s statuesque, sharp-witted and impressively animated, proffering throaty guffaws as he gently sips at his English tea.

But more acute observation squeegees clear the erosion: the pallid hues forming under his eyes, the alabaster flecks in his greyed eyebrows, the semi-tremble as dainty porcelain ...